


What'd I Tell You? We're Just Gettin' Started

by toewsyourheart



Series: Work Song [6]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Blow Jobs, Celebrations, Drunken Kissing, Established Relationship, Excessive Praise, Feels, Fluff and Smut, Frottage, M/M, Making Out, NHL16, Porn with Feelings, Sleepy Cuddles, Stanley Cup Champions, Teasing, winning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-15
Updated: 2015-07-15
Packaged: 2018-04-09 13:14:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4350155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toewsyourheart/pseuds/toewsyourheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Final and its aftermath.<br/>Features Cups, kissing, and Operation: Praise Jonny.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What'd I Tell You? We're Just Gettin' Started

**Author's Note:**

> basically 1/3 Cup win 2/3 shameless PWF. 
> 
> i'm sorry, kind of. 
> 
> follows directly after part five, but can be read on its own.

Patrick had a fantastic pre-game nap.

He’s not exactly sure how he slept so soundly, with what was ahead of them, with what they had on the line, but he woke with a good feeling settled deep inside, an excitement thrumming through his body. 

On the way to the United Center, Patrick sat quietly in his seat—headphones in, no music playing—elbow-to-elbow with Jonny, a solid presence at his side. He ran through Jonny’s words from the night before, allowed them to calm him as he listened to the muted chatter of his teammates scattered around the bus. 

 _You always show up._  

They filed off into the arena, and Patrick could feel the buzz in the building; he was ready, and Jonny was there to encourage, catching him just as he was about to turn on his pre-game hype playlist, dislodging the bud from his ear. 

“Everything you touch tonight is turning to gold, Peeks. Remember that,” Jonny whispered, nudging him from behind, so close that Jonny’s breath on his neck, his scratchy beard on the sensitive skin there, sent a shiver down Patrick’s spine. 

_You always show up._

 

The stage was big. The crowd was loud.

And Patrick showed up. 

Everyone did—Duncs, Corey, Hjammer, Jonny, obviously. 

Everyone was flying, and Patrick could _feel_ it. 

The clock wound down to zero, and the moments that followed were like an absolute dream, surreal. Sweaty, beaten bodies crashing together, the roar of the crowd, cheers and shouts of ‘lets go Hawks’ ‘that’s three!’ ‘we did it!’ hugs, fist pumps, shaking and tugging on jerseys. Unbridled happiness—love for each other, the team, the game, the city. 

They did it.

They won the Stanley Cup.

 

“Showtime!” Jonny shouts, bringing Patrick in for another of many hugs—and hopefully other things—the night will bring, while they wait for the Cup, after celebrating behind Corey’s net for a solid ten minutes, after the handshake.

They manage to keep finding each other, of course… Patrick’s like a moth to a flame. 

He can’t keep away from Jonny when he’s like this. So alive, exploding with joy and pride, nose permanently scrunched up in Patrick’s favorite, happy Jonny smile. Sometimes he’s stunned silent, mouth hanging open in disbelief at what they’ve been able to accomplish, and those are the moments when Patrick really catches himself staring, smiling like an absolute fool.

Because, _holy fuck_ , this is unreal. They’ve done it again, in Chicago, in front of their fans, in their city. Patrick can’t even describe how good it feels, but he’s got a few things to say anyway.

“That’s three, baby!” he yells back, pulling Jonny in close. 

“Can you fucking believe this right now? We’ve got _three_!” Jonny exclaims, wonder in his voice. It’s absolutely indescribable, feeling how happy Jonny is on top of his own elation. “Unbelievable! I told you, Peeks! What’d I tell you? You _always_ show up!” 

“You, Jon! I’m so!—” Patrick shouts nonsensically over the roar, and his voice catches in his throat; he can’t find the words to express how proud he is of Jonny, how honored he feels to be here with him. “We did it!” 

“Holy shit!” Jonny gasps out, overwhelmed and breathless, looking around to the crowd, clinging tightly to Patrick. “Holy shit!" 

 

Patrick’s riding an absolute high, and when Duncs lifts the Conn Smythe, he and Jonny skate over together to congratulate him. He deserved it, no doubt.  He was lights out for them—a fucking warrior. 

And though it seems like an impossibility, with how Patrick’s feeling, it gets infinitely better when Jonny hoists the Cup again, yells “Fuckin’ right, boys!” smile blinding. 

Time seems to slow for a moment as Patrick stands there, just watching him. He’s so beautiful, absolute raw emotion coursing through him—happiness, pride, and joy clear on his face. 

He’s breathtaking. 

The persistent noise, unwavering support from the crowd—it’s perfection, like a dream…

The fucking Stanley Cup is _theirs_ , for the third time in their careers, which seem to have begun just yesterday and so long ago all at once. He can’t believe it.

Jonny hands the Cup off to Kimmo almost immediately, and Patrick knows this is what Jonny really loves about the thing, being able to share it. Patrick’s hit with more emotion than he can stand, watching Kimmo lift the Cup, hearing Jonny yell for him to “take it for a skate, baby!—take it for a skate!” 

He’s thrilled for him, to say the least; they all are, those of them who’ve been here before, even those who haven’t—so glad they were able to win it for him before he retires. Everyone should experience this feeling. Like Jonny said, it gets better every time they do it. 

 

When the Cup comes to Patrick, he skates around in a daze, an absolute bliss-filled daze, then heads off for more hugs and celebrations, waiting for his family to come down to the ice, for any excuse to go be with Jonny… 

Amidst the chaos, Patrick speaks to the media, watches as Jonny does the same, occasionally skating by to catch bits and pieces of him deflecting compliments like it’s his job. 

Jonny’s so selfless, always putting the team first, always—no matter how impressive, how out-of-this-world his individual accomplishments are. “Pffft, nothing special about me,” Jonny says, hand scrubbing over the back of his neck in that bashful way, and Patrick scoffs, pauses to consider busting up the interview with protests before skating off to find his family, because that’s damn ridiculous. 

There’s not a single thing about Jonny that _isn’t_ special. 

What’d he call Patrick last night? Extraordinary? Well, Jonny’s _beyond_ extraordinary, and Patrick’s going to make sure he fucking knows it, believes it. Tonight and all the ones after, too. 

 

Patrick’s with his sisters when Jonny tracks him down, adorable grin and Cup in tow, and drags him over to the media swarm in the corner. “C’mon, Peeks! Let’s get some pictures with the thing, eh?—our third, baby!” 

After they snap the first couple, Jonny slings his arms around Patrick’s neck, smiling brightly, whispering how unbelievable this is. And it certainly is, but above all, being able to share it with Jonny—well, that makes it feel like so much more, way better than the best thing Patrick could have imagined.

He’s on cloud nine, can feel Jonny’s eyes boring into him, and god—Patrick wants to ruin him, tell him how good he is, how proud Patrick is to be _his_ and to be his teammate. 

Patrick gets the best of both, because that’s what Jonny gives—his absolute best. 

He thinks back to earlier, when he was asked who was most supportive through his “slump,” and Patrick hadn’t hesitated to tell the story of what Jonny said to him before, about everything he touches turning to gold. 

In this moment, holding the Cup with him, cameras flashing all around, Patrick’s suddenly so sure that it’s just Jonny, making everyone around him better. Everything _he_ touches turns to gold, simple as that… 

“Patrick, Jon!—this way!” a photographer beckons, shaking Patrick back to what’s going on outside his own thoughts, and he bares his teeth for the next picture, gives ‘em the ol’ razzle-dazzle. 

“Oh my god, your face,” Jonny teases fondly, bumping his hip against Patrick’s. 

“That one’s goin’ on the Christmas cards!” Patrick replies, internally patting himself on the back for having such good ideas, because this is definitely Christmas card-caliber stuff. 

“How ‘bout the cover of NHL 16 instead, eh?” Jonny offers up, purposefully nonchalant, smiling down at Patrick like the smug, secret-keeper he is, and—holy shit! 

Patrick almost loses his grip on the Cup. They’d discussed the idea of doing something for the cover in passing, if EA expressed interest, but Patrick never thought they’d _actually_ get this lucky. “W-What? They’re gonna do it?! They’re putting _this_ , on NHL 16?” 

“Yeah, Pat! EA told me just before, said I could surprise you!”

Patrick can’t help it, has to wrap his off arm around Jonny’s waist, huddle into his side; he can’t even fathom how stupid his face is, how absolutely gone he looks, eyes moving up to meet Jonny’s again. 

“Fuckin’ awesome surprise! You and me, Jon! On the _cover_ for real?!—icing on the cake, baby!” Patrick’s going to buy at least fifty copies of the thing when it comes out. 

Jonny’s eyes crinkle with laughter, head thrown back, and then he tugs Patrick in close, beard tickling his cheek, lips catching on his ear as he whispers, voice rough. “Nah, ‘s just extra. _This_ —” he says, gesturing with a shake of the Cup, followed by a gentle squeeze to Patrick’s neck “—with _you?_ That’s the icing on the cake.”

“I’ll ice _your_ fuckin’ cake,” Patrick murmurs back nonsensically, overwhelmed with fondness and desire, by how badly he’s itching to get Jonny alone. Patrick needs a minute to breathe, to just _be_ with him. God, he wants… 

Patrick lets his eyes wander down Jonny’s body, and his blissful gaze darkens; Jonny gets it, and fuck, Patrick’s going to make him feel so good, because he deserves it. He’s— “You’re _everything_ , Jon.” 

Jonny’s cheeks flush, tips of his ears turning red at the intensity, the sincerity in Patrick’s voice, and he diverts his eyes, mumbles out a sheepish, “c’mon, cut it out…” 

And no, Patrick most certainly will not ‘c’mon, cut it out.’ 

Instead, he experiences a flare of irrational ‘got something to prove’ protectiveness, wants to defend Jonny—how fucking _good_ he is, his ever-growing list of accomplishments—from his own scrutiny, from his self-deprecating praise of those around him. 

“You _are_ ,” Patrick presses, voice thick with conviction and adoration, hand fisting in Jonny’s sweater at his back.  

“ _We_ are,” Jonny counters, and Christ, he’s hopeless. Patrick pokes him in the kidney, since his hand’s already in the prime position to do so. 

“Don’t argue with me, Toews,” he warns, waggling his eyebrows as they finish up with the pictures. “We got celebratin’ to do!” 

Patrick lets the discussion rest, but spends the remainder of their on-ice celebration hovering near Jonny, contemplating how he can kick the night off right for his captain. 

 

Eventually the chaos on the ice slows, the team retreats to the locker room, and Patrick settles on his course of action.

“Time to pop fuckin’ bottles, booyyysss!” he howls over the blare of ‘Old Thing Back’ through the speakers, spraying champagne all over Jonny, Duncs, Steeger, whoever’s around, really, before turning it up to take a long pull. 

Patrick enjoys the occasional drink, likes getting buzzed with his teammates, his buddies. It’s no secret. Getting _Stanley Cup Champion_ drunk, though? That’s absolutely his number one jam. 

Gotta go hard in the paint while it lasts—that’s Patrick’s opinion on the situation—and he will, but first: 

Patrick’s eyes lock with Jonny’s, and he puts on a slow, sleazy grin, teeth digging into his bottom lip. Patrick feels a familiar heat pool in his belly, arousal building on top of post-win adrenaline as he takes in Jonny’s intense stare, the flush of his cheeks, the dampness of his hair and beard, the way his Stanley Cup fuckin’ Champs t-shirt is clinging to him, wet and sticky with champagne, beer, whatever else; he’s disgusting—they both are—but he’s looks so _damn good_ , and Patrick wants… 

He discreetly adjusts the semi he’s sporting—fuck, already? Patrick’s not actually surprised—and ignores the ache, the surge of need that follows from having a brief hand on himself. This isn’t about what Patrick wants. This is about what Jonny wants, about praising him until he can’t stand it, which won’t take long, since his threshold is still frustratingly low. 

Most importantly, though, it’s about reminding Jonny that he _deserves_ this praise and more, because he’s the best—he’s _everything._

Patrick pointedly nods his head in the direction of the exit, extending a silent invitation for Jonny to follow, and hurries not-so-discreetly out of the locker room toward the empty trainer’s office a couple doors down, bumping past all sorts of people along the way. He doesn’t care if the team notices, not like this is new or anything; they know the score here, and he and Jonny can deal with the chirps later. 

 

When he gets inside the room, away from the crowd but not away from the noise of it, Patrick only has a few seconds to wait, heartbeat thudding in his ears, anxious to get his hands, his mouth on Jonny, before he’s bursting through the door too, shutting and locking it behind him. 

Patrick’s crowding Jonny into the door before he can even turn around, hands gripped tightly on Jonny’s hips, plastering his champagne-soaked chest to Jonny’s back. Patrick licks his lips, stands on his tiptoes so he can comfortably reach Jonny’s neck, lightly grazing his mouth across the exposed skin there, just enough to tease.   

“Three Cups, Jonny,” Patrick murmurs, lips catching on his damp skin; he tastes like liquor, salty from sweat, and like Jonny, like winning.

“I _know_ , Peeks, _God_.” 

Jonny lolls his head to the side to give more access, and Patrick slowly kisses his way to Jonny’s ear, skims his hands along Jonny’s sides, rucking up his t-shirt; he gently nips at the lobe, earning a satisfying shiver from Jonny, before he starts sucking a faint mark into the sensitive skin beneath. 

Jonny lets out what can only be described as a whine. “Don’t know what I did— _ugnh_ —right to deserve this.”

He sounds fucking wrecked already, all breathy and shit, and Patrick’s so hot for it he can’t stop himself from rocking his hips into Jonny’s ass a little, thumbs digging into the muscles there, firm under the pressure; Jonny’s ass is his favorite thing, next to Stanley Cups, and if Patrick had time to fuck him, you can bet your sweet ass (and Jonny’s) that he’d be gearing up to do it, pun intended. 

Patrick’s hard in his shorts, doesn’t miss the way Jonny’s pushing back against him, grinding into his cock with these tiny flexes of his hips, wanting it just as must as Patrick wants to give it to him. Even through his wave of arousal, though, Patrick didn’t miss Jonny’s words, and that’s why they’re here. He places a wet, sloppy kiss to Jonny’s neck and lets his hands drift around to the solid muscles of Jonny’s stomach. 

Patrick quickly spins them, so suddenly Jonny gasps in surprise, and hugs Jonny to him, taking some of his weight as Patrick braces them against the door. “You do fuckin’ everything right, Jonny; play the right way, lead the right way.” 

Patrick leaves one hand low, dipping his fingers under Jonny’s waistband, and glides the other up Jonny’s abs, t-shirt bunching as he goes; Patrick puts his thumb on one of Jonny’s nipples, tweaks it back and forth, until he feels it stiffen beneath his touch, until he hears Jonny moaning how good it is. 

He drags his tongue over the same spot he was sucking under Jonny’s ear, breathes out against his skin. “You’re so good, baby—work so goddamn hard for this team, deserve everything that comes to you. You hear me?” 

Jonny makes this needy, put-upon sound that heads straight for Patrick’s dick, and tilts his hips up into Patrick’s hand where he’s trailing it softly just above his pubes, achingly close to where Jonny wants him, but not quite. Jonny reaches back to thread his fingers through Patrick’s curls, tugging a little. “You— _ahh_ —tryin’ to have a chat here, Kaner, or what the fuck?” 

Patrick chuckles at Jonny’s typical impatience, the attempt to deflect clear in his voice; he’s probably just as eager to dodge this topic of conversation as he is for Patrick to get a hand on his dick, but he’s not getting off that easy, pun intended again. 

Patrick’s barely said two sentences, just getting warmed up. He moves the hand on Jonny’s chest over to the other nipple—time for its turn now—and bites at his neck, slips his fingers out from Jonny’s waistband. 

“Both,” Patrick answers, though it doesn’t make too much sense, and pushes forward unapologetically with his praise, lightly pressing the heel of his hand down the length of Jonny’s cock over his shorts. “You were so clutch, Jonny, flyin’ out there tonight—shit, every night,” he amends. “I’m so proud of you.” 

Jonny groans and turns his head, maneuvering Patrick by his hair to slot their mouths together, and god—the slick slide of their lips, the way Jonny’s panting into his mouth; Patrick almost forgets his mission here involves using words and not making out with Jonny (just yet). 

Patrick pulls away with a smack, kisses along Jonny’s cheekbone and back down to his neck, skimming his fingers teasingly along Jonny’s length. “We couldn’t have done any of this without you. Don’t you ever fuckin’ forget that.” 

Jonny must realize Patrick’s not easing up, goes with a verbal rebuttal this time, since the kissing didn’t work. “Not without—God, s’not just me.” Patrick gives his nipple a tight pinch, and Jonny yelps, throws his head back on Patrick’s shoulder. “—‘M lucky, got great teammates.” 

Patrick’s palming Jonny’s dick now, short, quick strokes near the base that he _knows_ drive Jonny nuts; never enough to make him come, just get him good and worked up. 

“Luck’s got nothin’ to do with it, sweetheart,” Patrick says decisively, breath hot against Jonny’s neck. “You _earn_ it, don’t have an ounce of quit in you.” 

“ _Patrick_ ,” Jonny whines, and even like this, turned on out of his mind, he still manages to sound regretful, embarrassed by someone saying such things about him, even though they’re completely true. It’s astounding. 

“You’re a fuckin’ winner, never seen anything like you,” Patrick continues, and Jonny starts in on some payback, increasing the motion of his hips, practically seating himself on Patrick’s dick as he grinds back. The friction feels _so_ fucking good, and it won’t do for long, that’s for sure. “We— _ah_ —don’t pull this thing off without you, Jon. You’re our irreplaceable. You hear me?” 

“ _Touch me_ ,” Jonny pleads, voice carrying off into a strangled moan when Patrick’s cock slides between his cheeks, so close to just right, and oooh god, Patrick’s ready to cave and give Jonny whatever he wants; his voice is raw, absolutely stupid hot, and fuck— 

Patrick pushes him forward a little, and ducks around to get in front, crowding Jonny into the door again. Patrick’s breathing hard, dick straining against his shorts and Jonny’s thigh; it might be embarrassing, if Patrick had any shame whatsoever or if Jonny were in any better shape here, but he’s not, so… 

“Jonny, you hear me?” Patrick repeats, taking Jonny’s face in his hands. He scratches through Jonny’s beard, strokes his thumbs along the apples of his cheeks. “Tell me.” 

“I hear you,” Jonny murmurs, mouth pressed in a tight line. 

It’s not too convincing, but it’ll do. Patrick pulls Jonny in for another kiss, gentle and languid, long enough to calm them both slightly and buy Patrick time to work once he gets Jonny’s dick in his mouth in a second; don’t want him coming immediately, that’s no fun. 

Pretty soon, though, Jonny’s gripping Patrick’s ass and circling his hips again, demanding friction, trying to slot a thigh between Patrick’s. 

Patrick breaks the kiss and pulls away, still cradling Jonny’s face. 

“You’re our irreplaceable, Jon— _my_ irreplaceable,” he says, softer now, and Patrick’s heart hurts with how true that fucking statement is. There’s nothing about his life that isn’t better because Jonny’s in it; Jonny’s _his,_ and after another hard-fought season, they’ve come out on top again, won their thirdStanley Cup together. It feels like a dream, but this is actually Patrick’s life—what more could he ask for? 

“Peeks,” Jonny pants, fingers bruising against Patrick’s hips. “I, mine too. Icing on the cake, remember?” 

Patrick smiles, kisses him again, then slowly moves down his chest, Jonny’s hands sliding up Patrick’s sides as he goes, until he’s on his knees. 

“Patrick, God,” Jonny chokes out as Patrick drags his mouth along Jonny’s cock where it’s straining against his shorts. “Your knee.” 

Patrick wishes he could feel surprised that Jonny’s worried about his fucking knees right now, but alas, he’s not; that’s just Jonny, and it does actually ache a little, but that minuscule twinge, after a run like this, don’t mean shit. Patrick’s good to fuckin’ go. 

“Shhh,” Patrick admonishes softly, looking up at him through long lashes; he doesn’t take his eyes off Jonny’s as he pulls his shorts down, tucks the waistband under his balls, Jonny’s dick bobbing free. 

Patrick wants to dive right in, but he’s trying to be gentle with this one, really show his appreciation. He massages Jonny’s balls between his fingertips, presses kisses to the exposed skin of Jonny’s thighs, along the crease of his hips. “Lemme take care of you, babe.”

“ _Please_ ,” Jonny begs, head falling back against the wall with a thump.

“I got you,” Patrick assures him, nuzzling the smooth skin of his inner thigh; he takes Jonny in his hand, finally, gripping loosely at the base. The head of Jonny’s dick flushed red, dribbling with precome, and Patrick takes a second to tease at it, dip his tongue underneath Jonny’s foreskin before he retracts it down his shaft. 

Jonny’s hands land in Patrick’s hair almost instantly, gripping tightly at his curls, and Patrick hums his appreciation—he likes it when Jonny plays, too—and pulls back to lick his lips, pleased when all he can taste is Jonny on his tongue. He shifts his hips forward, nudging his dick against Patrick’s lips like he’s worried Patrick’s going to start torturing him again, and Patrick smirks. Not this time, baby. 

Patrick slides back Jonny’s foreskin, takes the spongy head in his lips and sucks, swirls his tongue over it, then sinks down a little, taking Jonny shallow to start. 

“ _Ahh,_ ” Jonny hisses, and Patrick hollows out, working Jonny’s dick against the inside of his cheeks as he bobs his head up and down; he knows Jonny likes to be able to see his dick in Patrick’s mouth, watch the stretch of it. Then, as if on cue, Jonny moves a hand from Patrick’s hair and grazes his fingers along the bulge of his cock inside Patrick’s mouth. “God, Peeks, your _mouth_.” 

Patrick pulls off with a pop and a chuckle. “This _dick_ ,” he counters appreciatively. There’s absolutely no reason praising Jonny should stop now. Patrick’s just saying more things that are true; Jonny’s got an awesome dick; it’s Patrick’s favorite one ever besides his own, and Patrick loves doing this for him. Then he gets an idea:

“C’mon, fuck my mouth,” Patrick tells him, resting his hands on Jonny’s hips, and leans in to press a kiss to the space below Jonny’s bellybutton.

“Yeah?” Jonny asks, voice wild and breathless, fingers flexing automatically in Patrick’s hair. 

“Y’know you want to,” Patrick challenges, surprised at how desperate for it he sounds, too, and fits his open mouth around Jonny’s dick, waits for him to get to it. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Jonny grits out, pushing in slowly and controlled, like everything else he does. His grip in Patrick’s hair is just this side of too hard, holding him firmly in place, and Patrick loves it, knows Jonny gets off on sitting the drivers seat, especially after Patrick’s worked him up like this.

Patrick flexes his fingers on Jonny’s hips, urging him forward; Jonny knows he’s allowed go harder than this, but he doesn’t, just fucks Patrick’s mouth with a fluid, graceful roll of his hips, letting out these low, punched-out grunts with every thrust. 

Patrick inches closer, so Jonny will go deeper, hit the back of his throat with each slide in, and Jonny hisses, rhythm slipping a little, thrusts becoming more erratic, along with his breathing. “Christ, Peeks, takin’ me _so_ good.” 

Patrick moans around him, relishes the fullness, lost in letting Jonny have his way, because he deserves it. Two jerks of his hips later and— 

“Oh, f-fuck, ‘m gonna come,” Jonny cries and lets out a long, wrecked moan as he spills down Patrick’s throat. Patrick sucks him down, wraps his hands around the base to work Jonny’s cock through his orgasm, lapping at the head to clean him up when he’s spent. 

Patrick’s reaching down to rub himself off when Jonny breathes out a ‘goddamn,’ grabs Patrick’s shoulders and pulls him to his feet, crushing their mouths together. 

“Fuck, Peeks,” Jonny says when he pulls back, and goes to put a hand on Patrick. “Your turn.” 

“I can—this was for you, Jonny, about you,” Patrick tells him, batting his hand away. 

“Don’t be stupid,” Jonny starts, actually looking offended, hand circling Patrick’s wrist. “I want—gettin’ you off is for me, too.”

Patrick practically moans—can’t exactly argue with that—and this time, when Jonny moves to slot his thigh between Patrick’s, he lets him. Patrick cards his fingers through Jonny’s hair, kisses him fiercely as he rides Jonny’s thigh, so close already. 

The room is a mix of grunts, hard breathing, and the glide of shorts. Patrick’s all sensation and quick breaths, gasping into Jonny’s mouth with each slide of his cock against fabric, encouraged by Jonny’s strong hands on his ass, urging him on, and the friction is, _fuck_ —it’s outstanding.

“Wish you could fuck me, Pat, wanna feel you; harder, c’mon—harder,” Jonny chants, and that shouldn’t be all it takes, but it is. 

Patrick groans out a quivery “shi-i-i-t-t,” and comes in his shorts, orgasm so intense he sees spots that look like Stanley Cups dancing around his vision, and collapses into Jonny. 

Jonny holds Patrick to him, and they take a collective moment to breathe, calm down until they can articulate real thoughts. 

Patrick’s first coherent one is another winner. 

“’M fuckin’ you when we get home,” he mumbles into Jonny’s chest, trying to remember how to move. 

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” Jonny snorts. “Your dick’s not gonna work.” 

Jonny’s probably right, but—“Doesn’t mean ‘m not gonna give it a shot.” 

“I’d be offended if you didn’t,” Jonny says, kissing the top of Patrick head, then whispers, voice small, “Thanks, Peeks.” 

“Nah, thank _you_ ,” Patrick counters, pulling back to cup Jonny’s face in his hands and kiss him once, skim his lips over Jonny’s cheekbones. “Now, I think we’ve got another Cup to celebrate, Captain. What’cha say?” 

Jonny grins, eyes crinkling at the edges, and Patrick’s heart hurts with how happy he is, how much he loves Jonny, appreciates him.

“I say, it’s fun to win, babe. S’fun to win.”

* * *

 

When they finally collapse into bed that morning, sun already threatening the horizon, Patrick’s so drunk he can’t even remember how they got there.

However, he’s not so drunk that he forgets to give fucking Jonny a shot—statements were issued in that trainer’s office, commitments were made. 

As predicted, though, his dick is being less than cooperative, much to his own betrayal, and Jonny just garbles out a drunken chuckle as Patrick haphazardly strokes his cock, trying to will some life into it. 

“G’ve it up, Peeks,” Jonny mumbles. “We’ve got all th’ time ‘n the world.” 

Patrick blows out a breath and admits defeat, tangles up with Jonny to make out for another minute instead, a twisted mess of loose, alcohol-heavy limbs and a slow, lazy movement of wet lips, because Jonny’s right; they can do it whenever—as soon as they wake up, and the next day when they wake up, and the next, and the next, and lots of times in between.

When they’re too tired to move anymore, lips swollen and used in the best of ways, Patrick cuddles into Jonny’s side, presses a kiss to his chest, and takes another moment to bask in what they’ve done tonight, in the fact that he gets to have Jonny like this regardless. 

Right before sleep pulls him under, Jonny mutters, “Hey, Peeksy.”

“Hmmm?” 

“We’re not done yet, y’know?” Jonny half-asks, and yeah, Patrick knows what he means. Jonny’s mind is already on the next one, because he’s a goddamn winner; that’s all there is to it. 

Patrick smiles lazily against his chest. “Nah, Jon. Not e’vn close, baby—" 

Jonny’s arms tighten around him, and he relaxes into it, trails his fingers along Jonny’s side. 

“—not e’vn close.”

**Author's Note:**

> i mean, i couldn't not write this, right? lol. 
> 
> i can be found on the tumblies here [toewsme88](http://toewsme1988.tumblr.com).
> 
> thanks for reading! :)


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